


invisible string

by dictura



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Let Sakamoto Ryuji Say Fuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictura/pseuds/dictura
Summary: Ryuji has a nightmare he can't shake. Akira has something to say about it. Angst with a splash of Pegoryu to take the edge off. (Second-person Ryuji POV.)
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	invisible string

You have this dream, and it keeps coming back:

You’re in the cell of a dungeon, surrounded by suits of armor. They’re empty, faceless, but one is holding you up, choking you, your hands and feet flailing to find a grip against the rough brick and dangling chains on the wall. An almost-naked man in a cape and a crown is laughing. A sword descends toward your neck—

Across the room, he struggles against the arms holding him down, screaming. “That’s enough!” he yells, and a shield bashes him across the face. The armored suits creak, turn, and you clatter to the floor.

And then an unseen wind blows against them, pushes them back, as he turns into someone else—

It’s the moment he becomes Joker, you know. You remember it well because you’d never seen anything like it before. It’s also the moment he saved your life.

There’s something about it you’ve never been able to exactly name. Maybe it’s because he changed when you were the one about to be executed. Maybe it’s because that place, that fight had nothing to do with him—because you dragged this stranger into the middle of your mess but he got you out anyway. Maybe it’s because you looked at him and thought something you’d never thought about a guy, about anyone before—that he was kind of…awe-inspiring. Like some kind of vengeful, cackling god.

(You’ve never said that to him, but to be fair, you went through a _lot_ that day and most of the days after, and “cool” was about all you could get out at the time.)

Every time you dream about it, you wake up in a cold sweat. Now you’re risking your life almost every day, knowingly, willingly, putting yourself in front of the claws or the shots or the fire or the ice, maybe even jumping in to take Joker’s hit. (He hates that. But you stand there wheezing, bleeding, _grinning_ because he’s too important and you can take it.) You’ve tried to talk to Ann about it once, in stilted pieces, and she said, more quietly than usual, “Ryuji, I _know_ how brave you are, but literally no one wants to relive feeling like they’re about to die. Of _course_ it bothers you.”

But you don’t think that’s why. (Sometimes you feel almost sure you’re about to die, but you still push your way to Joker’s side.) You know what it is that you’re most afraid of, and it’s not taking the hit that takes you down. You’ve been waiting for that hit all your life and taking all of those in the meantime. You took that hit to your leg and it _felt_ like the last, like it shattered the one thing you were good at, the one thing people _loved_ you for.

No one wants to relive feeling like they’re about to die. But you already died and came back. (You did it because he told you to fight back.)

It’s not the fear of dying that wakes you up, not really. It’s something worse—the fear of being _helpless._ Useless. Your total inability to act in that moment, like it felt when you were a kid. (Like it felt before you were old enough to stand up for your mom, and then sometimes after.) Like it felt the day your substitute track coach broke your leg and killed what you were.

That feeling—like you are and have _been_ nothing—that’s worse.

Still, you don’t get why that moment haunts you. It didn’t take so long for you to wake up, too, to overthrow that inch of you that believed in the rules (if that) and step up to Joker’s side, and you _know_ you’re not helpless there. You can crush a shadow’s face in, and he’ll always have a use for that.

You don’t get it, until the day he gets it for you.

It’s been a long afternoon in Mementos, but you know you have to push further, a little longer until you get to that next floor down. Mona might be a smug little asshole of a cat, but he also tries his best to help everyone understand the weird hellscapes you find yourselves in, and for all the complaining, he’s not a bad bus—he deserves to figure out who he is. (Other than a Transformer.) So although the sweat is running down your face, you’re ready to decimate the next shadow Joker pulls the mask from—you call its blows to you like a lightning rod. “Come on, asshole! You’ve got nothin’.”

It’s all alone, an impossibly tall, slender thing seemingly made of pure steel, and you’re swinging your heart out but it doesn’t make a dent. It’s making one in you, though, raking its sharp, clawed hands in your chest.

“You need to calm down!” calls Mona, but it feels like the sweat in your eyes is blood now, and some deep part of you knows—yeah, you do, because you’ve fought this kind of thing before, and you _know_ hitting it does nothing—but you just charge it again, which is _useless—_

And it’s coming in to slam you. The blood is in your eyes. You can’t move; you’ve barely caught your breath—

—and Joker dives in front of you, taking the hit. It sends him sprawling—

Panther finishes off the shadow in a blast of fire, and she turns to shake you by the shoulders. “Hey, snap _out_ of it. Relax. He’s gone.”

The rage in you ebbs, slowly starts to calm; usually, it doesn’t bother you so much (usually, you don’t care, because sure, you’d _love_ to go in swinging), but this time, you run to him, and it’s still spilling out of you.

Joker is getting to his feet, dusting himself off, adjusting his gloves. Mona seems to be eying him up for injuries. He looks bruised, scuffed, but okay.

You are definitely _not._

“Dude, what the _fuck_?”

Joker cocks his head at you, as if waiting for the rest.

“You can’t just go—tanking hits for me like that—”

He smirks. “What, like you do for me?”

Your fingers curl into fists. “It’s not _like_ that! You’re the leader, we need you—”

“And I don’t need you?”

You sputter, stare at him. He’s said it so casually.

You’re helpful, sure. Useful. You _want_ him to need you—you _make_ him need you, with every shadow you take down, every time you take the punch and get up swinging.

You’re a skull-faced pirate who shoots lightning because he told you that you could and you _wanted—_

_—_ you wanted to be more than the kid Kamoshida ruined, because _Akira_ said you could do it.

“You _don’t_ need me,” you say, softly now, the rage gone. You wipe the sweat out of your eyes. Blood comes away with it.

He steps closer to you, and his voice lowers. “You really think I could do this without you?”

“There are enough of us on the team now—”

He cackles, harsh and abrupt, and you forget where to finish that statement. Which is just as well, because he just turns on his heel and walks off.

You’re about to storm after him, but Ann has gotten a hold of your arm. “Ryuji, seriously! What _was_ that?”

Futaba gives you a definite _look_. “Gift horse. Mouth. There’s a whole thing about that?”

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious—all of your teammates are watching you, and you realize: not one of them asked why it was Joker would try to save you.

“I’d better—follow him,” you say, in their general direction, and Ann lets you go.

Joker hasn’t gotten far—none of you would without the bus down here. He’s staring at a dead end. You walk up beside him, not knowing how to start.

Then he does.

“I didn’t _ask_ to lead anyone,” he says. “But if that’s what you needed—without you all, I’d be alone.”

“Same here,” you say, looking sideways at him. “But—”

“Without _you_ , I’d really…”

He’s swallowing, taking too long to say something, his eyes fixed away from you. But you can’t figure out what it is that _you_ can say because—you’ve never heard him choke like this.

He continues, and his voice is quieter, rough. “I never had to convince you to talk to me. To be my friend. To—it’s like we were supposed to meet. Like there was some kind of invisible string, I guess, tying me to you, or you to me. And without that—without _you_.” He finally looks back at you and his gaze is intense. “I don’t know how I could do all this.”

“Without you, I’d be dead,” you say. “And without you to tell me I could fight back—I mighta never gotten up even after I survived that.”

“You would’ve done the same in my shoes.”

“I— _didn’t,_ though. _You_ saved _me_.”

He smirks. “Then you saved me. And you continue to save me. I thought it was this whole reciprocal thing, but then you started running up the score, so I figured, well, I may as well get you back the once. Only that _one_ time really pissed you off.”

“Yeah.” You look down, swallowing. “Sorry about that. I guess I just…”

“You really like protecting other people, huh,” he observes. “Being protected, not so much.”

“Yeah.”

And he gets it for you, the thing you couldn’t name: you can’t watch him protect you. You _can’t_ , because—

“But I’ve got a place beside you, yeah? So we look out for each other. That’s how it works.”

—you shake your head, because there’s got to be a way to _explain_ —

But he sees you, and he grabs your shoulder. “No, you can’t just—you can’t just _protect_ me, because if you go down, so do I.”

You frown, and you try to read what’s going on in his face. The mask doesn’t make it any easier. His other hand finds your other shoulder and he’s shaking you gently now, like he’s trying to communicate something through vibration.

“Do you get what I’m _saying_?”

The question feels urgent, but you have no idea. “Not really,” you admit.

He hums in frustration, so you go on, “But, just, I can’t watch _you_ protect me. You’re maybe the only person who ever really tried to, but I—”

He smiles at that. “So I’m the guy who thinks you’re the most important person in my life and that’s why _I_ can’t protect you?”

“I guess?”

_You’re_ the most important person to him?

“I’m—” You’re grateful for the mask, because you’re sure you must be turning red. “I’m the most important—to you?”

He smirks again, and in his mask, it’s all trickster-god when he looks at you like that. “Ryuji, for a genius, you can be really dense.”

You try to laugh it off. “Yeah, I guess.”

You don’t know what to do with that, because—to be the most important person to someone like Akira isn’t the same as with anyone else. This is your leader, and your best friend, and the guy who haunts your dreams every night, because you want to be better and _do_ better. For him.

“You want to go back? We should probably finish up here.”

He’s also the guy who knows how to handle you, because right now, you’re going to need a lot of time to process before your response is anywhere near coherent. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

That night, you dream something different. It’s Akira—Akira _without_ the mask, with the face of the boy, not the god—and you’re both in Mementos, staring at that wall, but when he turns towards you, he’s crying. And god, you reach for him but you don’t know what to do, he’s crying, why is he crying—but he’s crying because you’re dead. You’re not there, not really. You’re lying on those tracks, covered in blood and torn to shreds, your eyes empty.

He lies down next to you, takes your hand. You try to grip him with your fingers but—you’re not there. He closes his eyes—smiles. He looks peaceful like that, almost. But there’s a headlight, and you want to scream: _There’s a train coming—_

You wake up in a cold sweat, and you know: the thing you’re afraid of isn’t dying.

You’re afraid because he’s the most important person in your life.

You reach for your phone, hands shaking. It’s the middle of the night, but he responds right away, anyway. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you’ll fix this.

You go out for yakitori, and everything is normal. You banter with him, and you realize, looking over at those hipster glasses and the way he almost smothers his mouth in his hands when he laughs—you like it better: the face of the boy, not the god. There’s something about Joker that’s untouchable—unknowable, almost. But Akira, the guy who runs with you, games with you, flips you for the last skewer—you know him. (You know he’s the kind of guy who’ll go out of his way to help a stranger. You know he’s the kind of guy who can lose everything in his life doing it and still make the same choice. You know the most important person in the world to you could never be anyone less than this, and—maybe it’s him, and not the mask, that’s worth some awe.)

The first time you spoke to him, you didn’t hesitate. It kind of feels like you knew him even before that. Like maybe you—saw his heart, as ridiculous as it feels (but, given your life as it is, it doesn’t seem impossible anymore). And you know that means you owe him more than acting like nothing happened, so you don’t want to hesitate now.

“You know the thing you said? About invisible string?”

“Yeah?” Akira cocks his head at you.

“I think you’re right.”

He smirks. It’s softer, a subtler expression, in his life as a normal teenager. But it’s still, in its own way, kind of divine. “Yeah. Probably.”

“You’re…” You feel your face getting hot, but you barrel through. “You’re the most important person to me, too. That’s why…everything. You know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Everything, huh?”

You shrug, and you look at his hand on the table, fiddling with a skewer. You reach for it impulsively, clumsily, your hand over his.

He slides his hand out from under yours, and you feel about ready to vomit, but it’s just to discard the splintered stick. He very deliberately takes your hand before you can pull it back, entwining your fingers.

“Yeah,” you continue, finally. “It might—mean more than I thought it did.”

And Akira grins. It’s not Joker’s grin—violent, maybe a little terrifyingly gleeful—but it’s awe-inspiring in its own way. Because he looks absolutely giddy, and it’s all about _you._

“Yeah,” he says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”


End file.
